


Speak Easy Tonight, Fight Tomorrow

by SomeSillyScribingSee



Category: Hearts of Iron (Video Game), Paradox Games
Genre: 1930s, Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, American Politics, Dialogue, Dialogue Heavy, Diary/Journal, Drama, Early Work, Journalism, Multi, My First Fanfic, New York, New York City, Political Parties, Politics, Protests, Pseudo-History, Rebellion, Speakeasies, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeSillyScribingSee/pseuds/SomeSillyScribingSee
Summary: The world in 1936 is ablaze with political intrigue, revolution and a shift in power...In the universe of Kaiserreich, anything goes in the equilibrium of human politics, from the socialist zeal and vigor of Syndicalism to the grip of the iron fist of National Populism. Nations change on a monthly basis, economies are stricken with collapses, power drives the hunger for bloodshed. This is truly a time to be alive, in not necessarily a good way...Through the perspective of different characters in their respective nations at varying times during Kaiserreich's timeline, you can realize how captivating its universe really is, from the grueling hardship to the triumphant victory, and everything in between.
Kudos: 4





	1. A Charismatic Intro

**DISCLAIMER: This Fanfic takes place entirely in the universe of Kaiserreich, a Hearts of Iron Mod. The Kaiserreich Universe belongs to the developers of the mod, only the characters and plotlines I create belong to me.**

**11-20-36**

AHEM. This is my diary. Comfy, eh? I know, people might never find this garbage, but just in case, and for my own motives, I'm writing it. Who knows, maybe I can sell it off for a couple hundred as my memoirs for some quick cash. That sounds good, eh?

Eh, let's get to the point. Some quick credentials, why not?

Name: Richard Dale Sinclair. Cool name, innit? No? I respect and yet deeply hate your opinion.

Nationality: American, also from Britain and Krautland, some other European places as well that you probably don't give a shit about.

Political Affiliation: Well, if those Syndies really want to hear it, I'm a Social Liberal. Yes, execute me for treason, I know.

Gender: Male, duh. You think Richard is a girl's name? Bah.

State: New York. The land where Yankees dominate Baseball and men in trench coats and fedoras try to rip you off big time.

Age: 22, hot off the presses of College. That means I like to think, and **deeply.** The clowns at the deli who say 'college is a waste of money' clearly don't know what the hell they're talking about.

Nickname: call me Rick. Or Rich. Whichever you deem more acceptable in your weird social circles. (Note: not necessarily _socialist_ circles.)

So, uh, I hope the blokes (I tend to like British slang, as a warning) that read this have a wonderful time. Or a terrible time. Whichever you prefer!


	2. Gettin' Exposed

**11-21-36**

My apartment was quite the beauty. Filled to the brim with luxurious knick-knacks, baseball cards and other innocuous objects, there was hardly a time when there wasn't something to gawk at. Of course, myself included.

I took my time in handling the bronze knob on my door to swing it right open, grasping at my hand as I realized it had a bruise from the impact. After a moment of letting the pain draw out, I strolled in and sat on my violet-blue bed, covered in ornate flower-pattern bedsheets, and completed with a pair of lavender pillows. Boy, life was great.

I soon came to see that my curtains were rolled up, and the view of a bustling but embattled New York City hobbled onto my eyes; Workers huddling together in strikes, Police Officers accosting criminals and scaring off the more-cowardly Unionists, concession stands feeding the masses with overpriced hot dogs and various campaign Yes-men haggling the gullible of Manhattan. It was such a melting pot of ideas, people, politics, delicacies, destitution and indebtedness that absolutely intoxicated me. So many conflicts of interest, so many things to do, so little time at hand for a recent graduate like me.

Even with all of my intrigue, however, it wasn't like I wished to partake in it directly. New York's melting pot could be indeed quite a sweltering one, with many twists and turns and backstabs that would make Hamlet blush. So, for now at least, I wouldn't philander with the Syndicalists or hop on some parade float commemorating how Huey Long will make Every man a King if you vote for him. No, now was not the time for that. Now was the time for sitting back, taking a swig of beer and enjoying the intricacies of America from a safe view. To recline and watch the world burn, if only for a moment. That was my goal.

And why not attend the greatest theater for the showing of life: Peterson's Bar. A recluse for any New Yorker wishing to find solace in the warm embrace of alcohol. Or, just to banter with their most charismatic of friends and family. Possibly both. So, I found myself quickly packing up again for a go-around at this prestigious place. So, on I went!


	3. Gettin' Acquainted

_**After partially getting the hang of this, I'll start writing longer chapters now.** _

**11-21-36**

I scurried out of my apartment room with a backpack dangled on my spine and notebook in hand, dodging various hotel workers and fellow residents on my way towards the exit. My journey through the elevator, although arduous, was short-lived, and I was relieved to indeed be at my destination. Now I jaunted out victorious, beating the trials of both time and crowded hallways to embark on a new quest across the even more trying seas of New York City infrastructure and transit.

Oh, yes, it was a beast. Cars buzzing by at electrifying speeds, New Yorkers of all types rushing to work, school or to just argue about some political bullshit with their friends, pigeons begging for you to either end their monotonous existence or step aside so they could consume their barely-edible lot of bread crumbs and meat chunks strewn nicely on the ground. It was quite the experience to be in this mercilessly quick and overwhelming machine, although one that left an everlasting impression on me. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, the bar.

Peterson's Bar. The Crown Jewel of New York entertainment. If a man with a strangely designed 'N' and 'Y' cap says no to this objective assumption, you are to immediately deem him as either an insane man or a liar. This was drunk, talkative heaven, I say. Maybe a heaven even better than the real one! Well, if there is one, though. Anyway…

I gently opened the doors after breathing in a great gust of air from the outside world to enter this new and exotic place of coziness. I could see waiters delectably dealing drink and food to the delighted denizens of this fine, fine establishment. Their faces were as gay and joyous as could be, allowing the bar's inhabitants to take pride in their drinking away of their lives with a smile. After this bit of prolonged gawking, I sat down on a roughly polished stool beside my trio of friends present there.

"Heya, Rick. It's a beautiful day, and we're having fun drinking our asses off. I saved one for ya, too. Have a sip," spoke the generous and cordial David Milton White in his usual hard New Jersey accent, an old college friend of mine. His skin was of the palest you could ever set your eyes on, he had large emerald eyes, an elongated but thin nose, puffy cheeks, stalky legs and fuzzy blonde hair. His magnanimity was near unmatched by anyone on this Earth: I'm sure he would take Jesus' spot on the cross if he could.

"Nice to see you again, Rick. I say, every time you come 'ere this place gets twice as lively," said a certain Jacob Bradley Howard in his light Brooklyn accent, a no-nonsense person with double the balls of anyone I knew. He had a nose that was so big I swore it covered a third of his fucking face, small eyes of light blue, a pure-black haystack for 'hair' and an incredibly athletic build.

"Ey, it's nice to see a friend who blabbers both politics _and_ the usual dumb shit. You're just gold, Rick," barked the colored Jason Mavis Baker in a bit of a mixed Pittsburgh-Queens accent, possibly my closest friend, if I was arrogant enough to have one, heh. He was fixed with brown eyes, silvery locks of hair bearing the exact same color, and a physique screaming 'average joe' in your ear. That would be quite rude, though.

"Ah, shucks, it's like I'm getting ass-kissed thrice, which, now that I imagined it, would be very painful. So, let's just talk, yeah?" And there it was. My words kicked off a ride of vocal cord ringing and dinging that would make a doorbell blush. Of such memorable conversation to make any long-winded speech seem like a normal Sunday afternoon. Oh, the emotions! Oh, the comedy!

"So…whatcha think of the Syndies?"


	4. Gettin' Riled Up

…There was a banging sound that kept echoing and echoing throughout the night. I nearly bashed my pillows open, tossing them onto the ground and getting up with my pajamas hanging out. Then, scurrying to the curtained windows, I'd make them shoot up with a nifty little chain, examining the pulsating mob below. Those…maligned…little…

Bantering round and round, sounding, skimping, simmering along the Big Apple's Appian Way, oh, how important they thought they were. All high and mighty, they'd drunken a bit too much liquor by now. Feisty and frolicking and fucking annoying. Who did they think they were? God's disciples? Good enough to wake up the ENTIRE damn city? To ruin my WHOLE night?

…I simmered down myself. Scratching my head, taking a sip from my handy-dandy canteen, and putting finger to chin as I realized the reason for the crowd's ferocity. Yes oh yes, they weren't out for my nightly comfort, no no no. They wanted pensions, severance pay, all that. Unions, unions, unions. Golly gee, what an idiot I was, huh. Who knew that it was ME who was the real selfish jerk in this unholy situation, who would've thunk it.

Who would've thunk it, huh, a bunch of riled up 'Yorkers could put a city into unrest. Some gunshots here and there from policemen trying and failing to control the crowd, it was a cacophony of Goddamn protest, I say. Signs flung by, words sputtered and spattered, splattered, splurged. My mind wanted to envision blood on the streets, the lampposts were clearly luminous enough for it to be visible. Some action to spice up the day, huh? Huh. What a scenario.

I'd take a seat back down at my chintzy little bed, thinking this shit all over with a real finetuned grain of salt. I somehow thought of myself as both an innocent angel AND a bastard devil. How sick a man I was, how two-faced, unwitting, dim-witted, son of a bi-

… **The door opened.**

Look who it was. Jason, that genius. He must've done some voodoo magic or something to know that it was his time to free me of my insanity. Taking his hand off the bronze knob, he leaned back against one side of the doorway.

"It's gotten you all dinged up too, huh. Right at the perfect time…" His charismatic demeanor near single-handedly broke me of my hard-nosed frustration, actually making me grin a bit. A miracle-worker if I ever saw one.

"Perfect for the guys in black, too. I bet they're having a grand ol' time out there, don'tcha think."

He had a sly chuckle, one that gave you just enough satisfaction at your joke's success but not enough to reveal if it was truly funny or not.

"C'mon, we might as well do something productive. Turn sins to omens, you get me?" his unending charisma just carried on and on. I got up, patting him a bit.

"A beaming light you are. Let's talk it over some supper, shall we?"

And there we scurried over to the hotel café, quite the contrast from Peterson's lack of niceties. Boy oh boy, they made you feel like the scrappy grub they served here was fine dining! Fine paintings, waxed flooring, a jukebox, pretty waitresses, man, if Peterson's was Heaven, this must've been Nirvana or something. When it came to furnishing, at least, as I said the food was pretty mediocre, but eh, a lavish atmosphere is one you don't usually find in a run-down urban hotel like this one.

Back to business. Digging in to some half-delicious half-disgusting pieces of steak, I held a peachy piece of paper in my fork-less hand, facing Jason as he went to work in that cranium of his.

"This is heating up, fast, man. The Syndies, the Feds, the AUS way down South, it's a threesome of a conflict. And in more ways than one, two…"

I smiled, taking one last bite of that scraggly chicken. We'd made a deal with a newspaper a while back, the 'whatever' Times, I don't care to remember. Either way, we were the damn best two-man band in all of New York journalism, I'd say, churning out groundbreaking piece after controversially groundbreaking piece. Sure, I may've used more than enough buzz words there, but they're for-once warranted, I assure you.

"We gotta get…what do you call it, a 'scoop' on it all? First, some writing, then some interviews, then, boom, cover story extraordinaire, promotion, you name it. It's gonna be real, REAL big, huh, right?"

Jason could only nod at my newfound confidence, some foreseeable success right at our doorstep. And it wasn't going to wake you up barking from the city streets, either.


End file.
